


A Whale of a Tale

by Megg33k



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn and Crack, Red Pants, Red Thong Monday, Rimming, Underwear Kink, other stuff, sexy sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wears a red thong on laundry day, and Sherlock likes it. (Who could blame him?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Red Thong Monday](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Red+Thong+Monday), [reapersun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapersun/gifts).



> Written for Red Thong Monday, which has fallen on my birthday. Happy fucking birthday to me, right? SERIOUSLY! I just... I'm a happy girl. Sorry for 2 parts, but I couldn't get it done in time if I didn't break it into 2 chapters. The rest will come really soon.
> 
> ART INSPIRATION FOR THIS FIC BY ACRUMBLEBATCHWITHCUSTARDFREEMAN: http://acrumblebatchwithcustardfreeman.tumblr.com/post/43928385547

It would be a cold day in Hell when Sherlock Holmes was distracted from a case by an erection. But on this particular day—and by _day_ , what he really meant to say is _in the middle of the goddamn night_ –Satan must have been freezing his fucking bollocks off.

This story, this tale is a whale of a tale. It all began when detectively interest was piqued after catching sight of a crimson whale tail peeking out above doctorly jeans. And right there, in the peak of a dramatic deduction, the babbling brainiac froze… much like Lucifer’s balls.

Yes, he went from ‘…the smudge of ink on the left thumb combined with the paper cut on the right index…’ to gut-clenching silence in an instant. Because, in all of his time with John Watson, he’d never once thought to picture him in a red thong… and why would he? Well, other than the pleasing aesthetic.

But, suddenly, on a fairly cold night in a very wet London down an incredibly unsavoury alleyway, unthought mental images gave way to visuals that could never be unseen. And how does one continue with his deductive brilliance when his brain is busy creatively answering a rhetorical, self-posed, unspoken question? _Do you know what I’d like to do to you right now, John?_

Because, in the detective’s mind, he asked. And, in that same mind, he answered, _So. Many. Things._

He envisioned the fabric deepening from fire engine to carmine as it became damp with pre-ejaculate and saliva, the wet spot beginning to form at the tip of an erect and leaking cock. He could see his own lips descending on that spot, licking and sucking and making matters worse, but it would all be worth it for the taste, the tang of John.

Mind you, this all took place in a matter of seconds, but those seconds were filled with unnoticed stares, incoherent mutterings, and the subconscious licking of lips.

“Sherlock? SHERLOCK!” John’s voice brought him back ‘round.

“What? Hmm?”

“Alright?”

“Mm. Yeah. ‘Course.”

“Well, it’s just… I mean… you sort of stopped mid—”

“We should go.”

“Go?”

“Go?” Lestrade echoed. “But you haven’t even—”

“I’ll send you a full report. There’s something important that requires my attention at home… immediately.”

“But how could you possibly—” John tried to argue.

“I said ‘important.’ Didn’t you hear me?”

And he was already on his way out of the alley when he heard John’s footfalls, quick and frantic to catch up.

“What was that all about then?”

Sherlock hailed a cab and shut them up inside before replying. “I never intended to do thing quite like this. This wasn’t the plan. But circumstances have shifted, and I must shift with them.”

“Wha—What’re you on about?”

“This. Us. You and I.”

“What about us? I don’t—”

“You’ve been interested in me, _attracted to me_ for a while. Intellectually, from the very start, the first moment we met. Physically, a bit later, though not much.”

“What? No… I—”

“I’m not finished.” Sherlock’s lips twitched into a grin he didn’t even try to suppress. “You’ve been sexually attracted to men sporadically throughout your life, much less frequently than women but still worth mentioning. Though you’re well aware of the attraction, you’ve only allowed yourself to indulge it twice—once as a teenager, which you chalked up to experimentation, and once as a soldier, which you later referred to as desperation. Both proclamations were lies.”

“But I—”

“Yes, perhaps part of your adolescent experience _was_ experimentation, but you traded hand jobs with that boy because you wanted to. It wasn’t even a sexually satisfying attempt, but you were still able to climax just knowing it was his hand on your penis. In the Army, perhaps you _were_ desperate for human touch. But, if that was the end of it, you would have happily accepted the proffered blow job and moved on. He didn’t ask for or expect reciprocation. You did it because you wanted to do it, because you were curious about it. And, had it really been purely out of perceived obligation, you likely wouldn’t have enjoyed it as much as you did.”

“Why—why are—”

“Because you didn’t know I knew any of that. You allow yourself to believe I don’t see how you look at me. You pretend I’ve not heard you repeating my name when you masturbate. I have excellent hearing, and the flat is poorly insulated, John. I know.”

“Oh, god.” John’s face blushed as bright as his undergarments.

“What’s more, you worry I would be disgusted if I knew. You’re under some false impression that I don’t have sexual desires. And you tell yourself I wouldn’t be interested in you even if I was or did. But you are, once again, incorrect. I know. I do. And I am.”

“You, wha—”

“I want you. Sexually.”

“Oh. I… wow.”

“I had intended to let you come to all of this in your own time, but then…”

“But then?”

“You’re… well… are you or are you not currently wearing a red thong?”

More blushing. “Yes… I am. The call came while I was asleep and it’s laundry—”

The cab was rolling to a stop in front of 221 Baker Street. “When we get upstairs, I would greatly like to kiss you and see where that might lead. Would you allow me, allow _us_ that opportunity?”

“No.”

“N—” Sherlock’s parroting was quieted by the hot and unexpected press of John’s lips against his own.

Needless to say, payment was practically thrown at the cabbie, generous tip included. And, if two people can drag each other out of a barely stopped car, that’s exactly what they did. If steps can be taken with excruciating slowness yet still at a dead run, that happened as well. Because everything was too fast and too slow. Hurried and savoured. Rushed and rationed. Time didn’t slow until they fell through the door of 221B.

John panted. “Now what?”

“Show me.”

And, with a nod, John made his way to the nearest wall. He stripped off his t-shirt, his back to Sherlock. The movement of his muscles, the pulling of scarred flesh, they indicated his fumbling jeans far less eager to go than Sherlock was to see them gone. But the struggle was forgiven if not utterly forgotten when the deed was finally done.

With denim drooping just below his blogger’s bum, Sherlock salivated.  Then the compact little man, whose ego should well have been roughly the size of England, pressed one arm to the wall, turned, and bloody well winked.

Well, that was it. That was all it took. Like an athlete in some sort of sports game, or that one bloke in some film or another, or, well… never mind… perhaps analogy wasn’t the way to go. You see, what Sherlock did was drop to his knees and slide.

He stopped himself, John’s arse at eye level, with palms poised mere micrometres from his coveted bounty. He wanted to reach out, to grasp, to take… with fingers and hands, with mouth and tongue. His fingers twitched, his teeth sinking into his lower lip.

“May I?” he breathed, his own breath rebounding hot against his face.

“Please,” came John’s reply, and it was punctuated by the bucking of hips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To say this chapter hasn't been beta'd is an understatement. I just wanted to get it posted before I left for several days. Sorry if there are tons of mistakes. I literally just finished typing. (Hopefully it's not awful. I do worry.)

Hands grasped and gripped and spread, a quirked finger tugging aside a thin red strand. The point of Sherlock’s tongue traced the groove of John’s arse, pausing to swirl once around puckered flesh and continuing down before moving back up. Cheeks pressed between cheeks, he lapped and sucked eventually penetrated, buttocks clenching and twitching beneath Sherlock’s greedy palms. The once-tight muscle began to give ever so slightly around his eager tongue as it pressed its way deeper inside.

John keened from above, his knees repeatedly threatening to go out. “Bed… please,” he sobbed.

Sherlock obeyed, extricating himself long enough to follow that delectable arse as it wiggled its way up the stairs and to John’s room. And, there on the bed, the good little soldier went down on all fours. Using his every last ounce of self-control, Sherlock fished in the nightstand drawer for supplies he was quite certain he’d find without ever needing to have been told they were there.

The tube and foil packet were placed lightly on the bed in the exact opposite way that Sherlock fell heavily to the floor. He wrapped long arms around muscular thighs and tugged arse toward face, ready—so, _so_ ready –to hear those pretty little moans once more. Experimenting with tempo, with pattern, with pressure, he felt the strongest man he knew writhe helplessly against his mouth.

John panted and whined and goddam whimpered. And, finally, he begged, “More. Please. I need more.”

Never one to disappoint, Sherlock slicked up and allowed fingers to supplant tongue, the one now teasing and fluttering over the hypersensitive flesh surrounding his digits. And, when John again cried out for more, Sherlock refused to fail to deliver.

Extracting once again, he slid his long, thin torso between wide-set knees, wrapped an elasticised satin strand around his hand, and plunged back in. With each thrust of his palm, each quirk of his fingers and twist of his wrist, the claret cloth slipped, giving him the briefest glimpses of the ruddy headed cock it cloaked.

With each slip of satin, came the drip-drop of pre-cum from the slit of an overly-hard and underly-stimulated dick. And, in those moments of glorious exposure, Sherlock licked and lapped and damn near suckled, because it tasted of want, of need; moreover, it tasted of John—which, if you asked him, made it the dictionary definition of ‘nectar of the gods.’

Sherlock was gleefully taking John apart, the man mostly undone by the time fabric was tucked below bollocks, lips sealed around shaft, and blunt tip met soft palate. Muscles tightened against Sherlock’s fingers, and thighs quaked astride his ribs. John’s string of invective grew louder and less coherent as his prick pulsed against Sherlock’s tongue. _Almost there. I can take it. Just. Let. Go_ , Sherlock urged silently in his thoughts. And, as if John might be psychic, that’s precisely what he did with Sherlock’s name on his lips—both prayer and profanity at once. The warm, salty tang of John’s release struck the back of Sherlock’s throat, and he quickly swallowed it down, drawing out every last drop.

Sherlock withdrew his fingers and planted his feet, pushing himself up so he could meet John’s eyes. They kissed, soft and slow, Sherlock’s raw and abused lips moving languidly and lazily over John’s.

“Now what?” Sherlock asked, the question composed of little more than word-shaped breath.

“Now you.” John sat back on his heels with a smirk.

He painstakingly popped open each button of Sherlock’s shirt, slowly exposing a thin strip of flesh. His tongue, hot and wet, ran from throat to navel, then darted to tease at a newly revealed nipple. Sherlock gasped at the contact, the sensation seemingly hardwired to his already aching  cock.

The doctor’s trained hands read his body like braille, exploring and caressing. Worshipping it like a secular rosary, the final act of a sinner seeking penance before impaling himself for his sins.  John’s weight shifted from groin to thighs, allowing him access to fumble with and defeat a button and zip.

Sherlock tilted his hips up and was rewarded with the swift tugging down of trousers and pants all at once. And he’d never felt so equally safe and exposed. He fought the urge to squirm, to flinch when John’s fingernails trailed and tickled down his sides. But he arched into the touch when the pads of thumbs traced his Adonis Belt down toward his groin. Then fingers laced and locked, Sherlock’s cock jutting up at the most obscene angle through the diamond of space formed by index fingers and thumbs.

John paused, looked thoughtful. “How long have you known I’ve wanted this?”

“Long before you recognised it.”

“How did you stand it?” John indulged in one very long, very slow stroke.

“Be—” Sherlock’s voice betrayed him, his body shuddering with relief at the long-anticipated contact. “Because I knew this—I knew _you_ would be worth it.”

“And am I?” John folded himself in half at the waist, his lips hovering just above the totem in his grasp.

“I—nnnng…”

John licked a wide stripe from mid-shaft to tip, enveloping what he could on his way back down. He was quickly showing his hand as a meticulous lover, his form nothing short of remarkable. Every aspect of his every move, down to each well-timed swirl of his tongue, suggested two things: John was a natural, and his former platoon mate must have been a lucky man.

“Well, am I?” he asked again.

“Fuck.” _Hello. You’ve reached Sherlock’s brain. It can’t be arsed to process your words right now, but it’s expected to return approximately fifteen minutes post-orgasm. Please try again later. Sorry for any inconvenience. If this is an actual emergency, please remove your mouth from his cock so he might regain his coherency._

John pulled off with a _pop_.

“If you insist.” He rose on his knees and stretched, reaching for the tube and foil packet long since forgotten.

Sherlock’s field of vision narrowed, his gaze focused as he watched a thin latex sheath being unrolled down his length. Watched the smooth drizzle of lube coat the condom, a few rogue drops dripping cold onto his skin. The warmth of a fist circled around him, moving in long, deliberate strokes. The next few moments moved in slow motion: John taking position, pulling aside the satiny obstruction, lining up erection and entrance, the tightness, the heat, the wince on John’s face as he sank slowly down, down, down.

Just as he thought of intervening, putting an end to the glorious sensation that could override anything save for his John-seems-to-be-in-pain sensor, a silent conversation was had through a glance held too long:

_You’re in pain._

**_I can take it._ **

_I don’t want to hurt you._

**_Worth it._ **

_You can stop._

**_Shut it. It’s done._ **

And it was. John sat flush against his groin, taking a few cleansing breaths, adjusting, and finally moving. It started slow, with the circling of hips, a gentle sway. Then a nod, quick and terse. The universal sign of go-ahead-give-me-your-worst.

Sherlock brought his knees up, cradling John against his thighs, and tipped his hips for effect, incrementally and minutely until John’s incoherent string of vowels told him he’s located his angle of choice. And, within the space of a breath, that angle was recorded, filed, and saved in a vault impervious to Sherlock’s mental delete key. Because anything that could make John sound like that, cry out like that, go stiff like that—anything that could do all of those things needed to be remembered.

But Sherlock didn’t much continue beyond. He found his position and then just… stopped. His brain was preoccupied and afraid, sifting through data on all the ways he could accidentally injure John, all the ways he could be the source of more harm than pleasure. This… this was why he’d never said anything earlier. It was suddenly a bit too big and too scary. How could he have forgotten? What about that red thong made him forget everything, forget how terrifying the stark reality of his fantasies would be?

But John’s fingers laced with his own, John’s forehead resting against his shoulder. His breathing was still laboured, his voice dripping with desperation. “Please, Sherlock. I want this. Want _you_. _Need… you… to… move._ ”

With the first twitch of the detective’s hips, John let out a long, low moan. It rumbled through Sherlock’s chest, down through his stomach, and settled in his prick. And, with each successive thrust, shallow at first but building, the moaning grew in volume and intensity. The not-so-quiet encouragement encouraged, and Sherlock was soon pounding up and into John I-do-as-I-bloody-well-please-so-fuck-me-hard-and-fast Watson. And the panting in his ear, the whimpers between more voluminous cries kept him going. The scrape of stubble on his cheek, the digging of nails into his shoulders, the olfactory overload of wanton desire coming off of John in waves… the little sensations that may have been lost on anyone else served only to heighten the experience.

Then John’s face filled his field of vision, flaunting some knowledge Sherlock had yet to deduce. “C’mon. I want it. C’mon. Come on. Come—”

And he did. It was nearly over before he even realised it was happening. There was a clenching in the pit of his stomach, heat swirling in his groin, and then release—sweet, sweet release. And John looked as euphoric as he felt. He pumped through, grunting and gasping as he drained himself dry. Only after it was over did he notice the source of John’s bliss, shining and sticky on his abs.

“Sorry,” John said, his gaze too settling upon the mess. He dragged his finger through a pearly pool and then licked it clean.

And Sherlock was helpless to remain unaffected. He pressed his lips hard against John’s, his jealous tongue dipping in to taste what he would greedily come to refer to as ‘mine.’ And, his, it was—both substance and creator. And, for all the rest of their days, his, it would remain.

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's a weird place to stop, but it was the best chapter ending I could muster at 5am. Be gentle. Comments are always appreciated. ♥


End file.
